“A curry, I think, Norry,” she called out; “plenty of onions and apples in it, and that’s all ye want.”
“Oh, musha! God knows ye have her sickened with yer curries,” replied Norry’s voice from the larder, “’twas ere yestherday ye had the remains of th’ Irish stew in curry, an’ she didn’t ate what’d blind your eye of it. Wasn’t Louisa tellin’ me!”
“And so I’m to order me dinners to please Miss Francie!” said Charlotte, in tones of surprising toleration; “well, ye can make a haricot of it if ye like. Perhaps her ladyship will eat that.”
“Faith ’tis aiqual to me what she ates--” here came a clatter of crockery, and a cat shot like a comet from the larder door, followed by Norry’s foot and Norry’s blasphemy--“or if she never ate another bit. And where’s the carrots to make a haricot? Bid Sal’s afther tellin’ me there’s ne’er a one in the garden; but sure, if ye sent Bid Sal to look for salt wather in the say she wouldn’t find it!”
Miss Mullen laughed approvingly. “There’s carrots in plenty; and see here, Norry, you might give her a jam dumpling--use the gooseberry jam that’s going bad. I’ve noticed meself that the child isn’t eating, and it won’t do to have the people saying we’re starving her.”
“Whoever’ll say that, he wasn’t looking at me yestherday, and I makin’ the cake for herself and Misther Dysart! Eight eggs, an’ a cupful of sugar and a cupful of butther, and God knows what more went in it, an’ the half of me day gone bating it, and afther all they left it afther thim!”
“And whose fault was that but your own for not sending it up in time?” rejoined Charlotte, her voice sharpening at once to vociferative argument; “Miss Francie told me that Mr. Dysart was forced to go without his tea.”
“Late or early I’m thinkin’ thim didn’t ax it nor want it,” replied Norry, issuing from the larder with a basketful of crumpled linen in her arms, and a visage of the utmost sourness; “there’s your clothes for ye now, that was waitin’ on me yestherday to iron them, in place of makin’ cakes.”
She got a bowl of water and began to sprinkle the clothes and roll them up tightly, preparatory to ironing them, her ill-temper imparting to the process the air of whipping a legion of children and putting them to bed. Charlotte came over to the table, and, resting her hands on it, watched Norry for a few seconds in silence.